On Thursday, Friday and Saturday my luxury bath sheet did its job. Perhaps not quite as large as I’d like it to be, but maybe that’s a function of there being rather more of me to wrap than there once was.

Then Saturday afternoon arrives. Not long until the football kicks off.

Suddenly there’s a scream. A hideous scream. It’s my wife. In the bathroom.

You know what’s coming…

“I can’t believe you’ve bought a black towel.”

“It’s a bath sheet, dear. So I’m warm enough to make your early morning tea.”